


we are all going forward

by gdgdbaby



Series: give my regards to soul and romance [2]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Slice of Life, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-27
Updated: 2012-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-02 14:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad seems content to bum around on Ray's couch for the rest of the fucking year, and he doesn't protest when Ray shoves a bowl of microwaved Beefaroni in his hands. By eleven, he's drooling into the armrest, the lines of his face gradually smoothing out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we are all going forward

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Долгая дорога](https://archiveofourown.org/works/703849) by [SleepSpindles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepSpindles/pseuds/SleepSpindles)



> sequel to [the kids are all right](http://archiveofourown.org/works/363900). set after brad's tour with the british royal marines. warnings for racist, ableist, homophobic, and sexist language. originally posted at [livejournal](http://gdgdbaby.livejournal.com/85812.html). title from "snow and dirty rain" by richard siken. now with [podfic](http://chemm80.livejournal.com/126876.html) by the wonderful [chemm80](http://archiveofourown.org/username/chemm80), [chinese translations](http://www.mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=70490&extra=&page=1) by the lovely [sandy](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/1441111), and [a gorgeous banner](http://25.media.tumblr.com/b241d7e5a43271aa4daea20c1d9ced89/tumblr_miea5aTNqP1r02z53o1_1280.gif) by [SleepSpindles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepSpindles).

"So I'm disappointed you didn't come back with an accent, homes. Missed opportunities."

"I didn't know you were into that."

"Would you have made more of an effort if I was? Come on, full disclosure. Don't be shy."

"Maybe."

"Aw, that's sweet of you. No worries, man. It's water under the bridge."

"I'm not sure it would've worked even if I'd tried."

"Yeah, I guess it was only two years. Your formative days are clearly behind you."

"Thanks?"

"You're welcome. Put your shit wherever."

 

 

Frankly, he has no fucking idea why Brad is even here. Missouri isn't the most ideal of vacation hotspots even in fair weather, and if Ray'd had to spend extended periods of time in dreary-ass London and fuckbutt Afghanistan he'd be running straight for goddamn Disneyland or something upon his return. Not the Midwestern United States, and certainly not Kansas City.

Then again, Brad's not exactly the sanest person alive.

He looks incredibly fit, albeit a little worn around the edges and rather exhausted, which is about everything that can be expected out of touring with the Brits. He's still reticent and slow to smile and tall as all fuck, and he's got faint, crisscrossed tan lines at his wrists that weren't there before. He's skinnier than Ray remembers.

Ray—well, Ray's not quite as much a hard wall of Marine as he was before, but working front desk at a fitness center and trying to make music instead of partaking in strenuous day-to-day training will do that to you.

Brad just looks amused when Ray pointedly tells him this. He sinks into the ugly paisley of the sofa, loose and comfortable, and Ray putters around the apartment, keeps up a constant stream of idle chatter as he halfheartedly attempts to straighten things up. Brad answers a few vague questions about the Commandos and neatly sidesteps others. Sometimes Ray forgets he isn't really privy to that kind of information anymore as a civilian. He rolls his eyes and slides with it.

Brad seems content to bum around on Ray's couch for the rest of the fucking year, and he doesn't protest when Ray shoves a bowl of microwaved Beefaroni in his hands. By eleven, he's drooling into the armrest, the lines of his face gradually smoothing out. Ray drags his duffle bag and battered suitcase into the tiny living room and leaves them by the foot of the sofa, amidst the scattered sea of clothing and unopened mail and dusty framed photographs.

It's easy to slip back into that quiet familiarity they'd had with each other before splitting ways—a little too easy, given that they haven't spoken to each other at all since Brad left for England. Ray's not an expert by a fucking long shot, but Brad isn't displaying any real outward signs of post-combat stress. He's not the type to ever acknowledge shit like this directly, though, and Ray is sure as fuck that he has things to be doing in Oceanside, like filing paperwork at Pendleton or training himself into the ground.

And here he is, sleeping in Ray's house, instead.

Not that Ray really minds. _Mi casa es su casa_ and everything.

 

 

Ray plunks down in an armchair with two bowls of cereal when Brad finally wakes up in the morning. "When do you ship out again?"

Brad accepts the clean spoon Ray hands him. "Not for a while."

"Extended leave?"

"Nah, I have to go back to California in a couple of weeks and give the new recruits hell."

Ray raises an eyebrow. "The Iceman's gonna be raising his own brood of tetchy little Recon kids? Lord help us all."

Brad's always been spectacularly shitty at hiding his smiles. It's good to know that hasn't changed.

He swallows thickly around a mouthful of stale Cheerios. "I'm surprised you didn't haul your goddamn Yamaha all the way out here, Bradley."

"I spent my entire first day back with that motorcycle." _And then I flew here because I'm a crazy person_ , he doesn't say. Ray can hear it in his voice anyway. "I think it'll tide me over."

Ray snorts. "The sexual component of your attachment to inanimate objects is incredibly creepy, I hope you know."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Ray slurps the last of his milk. He grins when Brad sends him an exasperated expression at the liquid dripping down his face. "So. What's on the agenda?"

"Pardon?"

He gestures out the window. "You've got the entire fucking city at your disposal, buddy. What do you want to do?"

It turns out Brad's first orders of business are to sleep for twelve more hours and have takeout delivered to the apartment for a late dinner—which, sure, Ray can deal with that. Yeah, it's a little abnormal given that Brad's such a fan of outdoor pursuits, but there's really not much to be done when most of the state is snowed in for the rest of the month—and Brad is nothing if not abnormal. There's also the fact that Brad is the consummate asocial fucker. And that he's just returned from active combat. It follows, then, that he deserves all the rest and relaxation he can get.

Which is how they end up with their asses parked on the floor in front of the television at three in the morning, video game controllers clasped tightly in their hands. Ray is pretty sure his landlord is going to come down and start complaining very soon but he doesn't really give a fuck, can't bring himself to stop screeching when Brad eases ahead of him on Rainbow Road or keeps getting both of them killed in Mortal Kombat 4, or when the dusty console finally craps out on them in the middle of a round of Mario Party.

By the end of it, Brad's half-lying on top of a stack of Ray's dirty laundry, red-faced and breathing hard, and Ray can't stop laughing.

"Sorry, dude," he manages to get out, collapsing back onto the floorboards. "I've had this shitty 64 since middle school, probably. It's been a long time."

"You never upgraded when GameCube came out?"

"And betray my baby? Fuck no. She'll be okay in the morning once we give her a chance to cool down."

Brad chuckles. "Wow."

"What?"

"You're not allowed to say anything about my sultry love affair with the R1 ever again."

Ray kicks at his ankle. "Yeah, suck my cock, jackass. I do what I want."

 

 

The next day is Monday, which means Ray can sleep in all he wants but needs to actually go in for the night shift at work if he doesn't want to get written up.

"Sorry, Brad," he says, rubbing futilely at the enormous crick in his neck. "Duty calls, and as ever, I must answer."

Brad looks a little stricken. "I didn't come so you'd have to miss work because of me."

"Don't get your boxers in a twist, sunshine," Ray says flatly. "I mean, alright, this little visit of yours was unfathomably out of the blue—call a motherfucker next time, will you? But it's not like I had any other plans beyond bumming around at the bar on the corner for free drinks on a Friday night. Chill out."

And now Brad is wearing one of his thinly veiled expressions of disbelief, which is just peachy.

"Forget about it. Seriously. Look, you can even come with me if you want to." Ray strips his shirt off and rummages through the organized debris of his living room to find his employee apparel. "It's one of those big 24-hour health clubs. Tall, ripped devil dog like you would fit right the fuck in."

When he straightens again, Brad's all up in his space and holding out a navy blue polo. "This it?"

"Yeah, give it here," he says.

Brad squints at him. "You still wear your tags."

Ray looks down and rocks back on his heels, watches the loose ball chain bounce against his chest. He rubs the embossed letters on one of the tags with his thumb and then pulls the clean shirt on over his head, sends Brad a sardonic smile. "Yeah, homes. Taking them off just feels weird after six years of being forced to wear them, you know? Like there's something missing without them there. Jesus. It's just four ounces of stainless steel around my neck. How fucked up is that?"

Brad reaches over to yank on the chain and pull it out from under his shirt, warm fingers barely brushing against the skin at Ray's nape. "Not so much," he replies, pensive.

Ray swallows, throat dry. Contrary to popular belief, Ray is not a fucking mind reader—and for all that they've ostensibly ingratiated themselves into each other's psyches, the fact of the matter is that Brad's been gone for two years, has been through shit that Ray has no idea about, and Ray can't be expected to know at all times what the fuck Brad is thinking just from a couple of meaningful glances. Well, sometimes he does, but that's not the point. The point is—"Are you coming, then?"

Ray toes his holey sneakers on and grabs his keys, jangling them in his hand. Brad shrugs into a worn jacket and puts on a pair of marginally less beat-up shoes. They take the stairs down three at a time.

 

 

Ray's car is about to fall apart, but it gets the job done. It's way past rush hour on a Monday night, which is fortunate because his Ford's got a tendency to stall in the middle of the road when traffic's congested for too long. Some oldie but goodie comes up on the radio and he and Brad start belting out lyrics just like back in the day, and then they're pulling up to the fitness center, snow banks turned to slush under tire tracks and their breath coming out in clouds of white from the cold.

"Evening, Charlie," he yells as they walk in through the double doors.

Charlie's a heavyset guy in his early forties who works most day shifts and has some weird managerial title like deputy assistant manager. "I'm impressed, Ray. You're right on time," he says, scooting out from behind the counter. "Oh, shit, who's your friend? Maybe I should stick around instead of clocking out."

Ray rolls his eyes. "Yeah, sorry, pal. Your chances aren't great. Brad Colbert here's declared a blanket moratorium on romantic entanglements of any kind after getting stiffed by his ex several years back. Plus, he's a Marine. Even if that pesky piece of shit called DADT didn't exist—and First Recon's penchant for erring on the homoerotic side of things and his undoubtedly liberal dick-suck upbringing notwithstanding—I'm about 200 percent sure he's not gay." He flourishes a hand at Charlie. "This is Charlie. A coworker. He makes a fucking mean Shepherd's pie and brews his own beer. Oh, also—he _is_ gay, if you couldn't tell."

Brad's lips are turned up at the corners and he shoots Ray an amused glance, shakes Charlie's proffered hand. "Pleased to meet you."

"Oh, the pleasure's all mine. More's the pity." Charlie smacks Ray on the shoulder before pulling his coat on. "Dragon Lady called earlier to schedule an appointment with one of the trainers at six in the morning. At least try to be civil when she comes in, yes? I know you have a problem with that."

"Yeah, yeah, go fuck yourself," Ray says, and waves him out the door.

"Just looking out for you, brother!"

"Who's Dragon Lady?" Brad asks interestedly as Ray sits down at the desk.

"Some dumb cunt who keeps coming in even though she has the worst attitude in the entire world," Ray says. "I mean, yeah, I bitch about everything under the fucking sun, but this broad is—it's just beyond the pale. I swear to God, she's worse than goddamn Sixta, if that's possible." He slides Brad a guest pass. "Here, go work on your core or something. You look like you could use it."

Brad raises his eyebrows at the absolute absurdity of the statement and Ray flashes him a grin.

"You got ten hours," he says, running a hand through his hair and hunching over the computer keyboard. "Go crazy."

 

 

Ray finds him in the pool at the end of his shift.

"Really?" he calls down, arms crossed. "You couldn't have just borrowed spare swimming trunks from the lost and found or something? You're going to track water all over my car, asshole. I expect some goddamn monetary recompense for this."

Brad pulls himself out, boxers sticking to his legs. "I thought your vehicle could use the wash, considering you probably haven't even so much as dusted anything since you hauled it back from wherever dump of a scrapyard you found it."

"Hey, don't hate on my car," Ray snaps. "That's your only transportation home."

Brad cocks his head to the side. "You're legitimately irritated."

"Damn right I'm irritated!" He stomps carefully into the changing rooms, lest he slip and fall in an errant puddle of water. Brad starts removing his shit from one of the lockers and dripping all over the smooth tile. "Dragon Lady kept calling to reschedule. Fucking pain in the ass. I won't bore you with the details." Ray strolls out into the lobby area and grabs a towel before coming back in and tossing it at him.

"Thanks."

"Next time bring your own, fucknuts."

Brad smiles and rubs water out of his hair. "When's she coming in now?"

"Four in the afternoon." Ray shrugs. "Whatever, she's someone else's problem. Let's get out of here."

 

 

They grab breakfast at Ray's favorite diner in the city and get into three separate food-related arguments (pancakes or waffles, whipped cream or icing, bacon or breakfast sausage) before driving home. Ray's drowsy as hell, so he shows Brad where the spare set of keys is located and collapses into bed half-dressed.

"Do whatever you want," he mumbles into the pillow, watching Brad lean against the frame of the door out of the corner of his eye. "I'll be up in a couple of hours."

Ray has a dream about debate team back in high school, except instead of English they have to use sign language to argue and it all ends in fisticuffs, because how could it not? Dream-logic has him in his post-BRC body and so he fucking owns everyone, is the last one standing at the end. They give him the trophy on stage, his jaw aching and his dress shirt and khakis still stained with blood.

He wakes up with a start—someone's in the kitchen opening and closing cabinets. He scrubs a hand over his face and pads out of the bedroom, wooden veneer cold against his feet. Brad's apparently gone out for groceries in the interim and is, from the looks of it, whipping up some sort of sauce in a pan that Ray didn't even know he owned. Maybe that's new, too.

"You're a ridiculous person, Brad," he mumbles. The wall clock reads 2PM and there's half a mug of coffee sitting on the counter. He pours himself a cup and downs it in two lukewarm gulps.

"All you had in your fridge was an expired bag of frozen peas and two slices of deli ham," Brad says drily.

"Marines make do," Ray points out, the corner of his mouth coming up.

"You were also out of Chef Boyardee, smartass. What was I supposed to do, make some inedible abomination out of peas and lunch meat? Oh—and old cereal?"

"Better than MREs," he says, and laughs at the annoyed glance Brad gives him. "Alright, I see your point."

Ray swivels and walks out into the living room. A relatively clean shirt is draped over the back of the armchair. He picks it up and puts it on before sitting cross-legged on the couch, the loose flannel of his pants catching a little on the scratchy material.

Brad comes out twenty minutes later with two plates of steaming beef stroganoff served over buttered noodles, like something straight out of a spread in _Gourmet_.

Ray sends him a look that he hopes sufficiently conveys the depth of his astonishment. The food tastes fucking delicious, though, so he decides not to question when the hell Brad turned into Martha Stewart and just inhales as much as he can.

"Did you hear Rudy got out?" he asks later, when the dirty dishes are in the overflowing sink and he's scrolling through his inbox.

Brad looks up from his own laptop. "What? Really?"

"Yeah, over the summer. He's teaching at a boxing gym down in San Diego, sent out a heartfelt email about it. You know how he is."

"What about everyone else?"

Ray hums, taps the edge of his computer with his fingers. "Walt's gone into private contracting." Brad smiles a little at that. "Whoa, wait, wait—you scheming son a bitch. That wasn't your idea, was it?"

"I may have mentioned it in passing."

Ray shakes his head. "Um, who else? Poke's doing shit with Blackwater."

"Fitting."

"Right? That's what I said." He lets out a chuckle. "And Trombley's with the LAPD now."

"Jesus Christ."

"I know."

"May the good people of Los Angeles rest in peace."

"Amen." Ray purses his lips. "Fick's busy with academia, but you knew that already."

"Right. When does he graduate?"

"The fuck would I know? We're all a little removed from the company grapevine these days."

"Doc Bryan?"

"Med school, last I heard. Everyone's moving up in the world."

Ray stretches his legs out over the coffee table. His calf is cramping a little. He should probably stretch a little and go jogging before band practice—oh, shit.

"Brad, I have to go out for a couple of hours later."

Brad glances at him curiously. 

Ray sighs. "Band practice. We've got a gig on Friday." He catches the successive look on Brad's face and raises a hand to shut him up before he starts. "Nope, don't. Stop while you're ahead."

"You don't even know what I was going to say," Brad protests weakly.

"Your face is an open book, homes," Ray says, shrugging with his entire body and leaning back into the couch.

Brad stares at him with a strange expression. "No, it isn't."

Ray grins. "Au contraire, motherfucker. It is to me."

"Okay." He pauses, and then, the million-dollar question: "Can I come to your show?"

"You want to?"

Brad blinks. "Of course," he says, like it's a stupid question to ask.

"Why the fuck not?" Ray says with an air of faint resignation, putting his computer down and pulling his shitty flip phone out. "You'll be happy to know that we are, in fact, not a country rock band."

"My relief is immense."

"I'm sure it is," he says.

 

 

They exhaust their entire repertoire of music at the gig and even throw in some haphazard covers at the audience's behest. At one point during a percussive-heavy song Ramona switches from her keyboard to Mike's drums, to comically disastrous effect.

"Never do that again, babe," Ray breathes into the mic, strumming a couple of chords on his guitar. "You can't drum for shit." She grins and flips him a rude gesture before starting the intro for the next song.

He ends with a soulful rendition of _Don't Think Twice, It's All Right_. Mike whips a fucking harmonica out from the middle of nowhere to accompany. There's a lot of ridiculous cell-phone waving from most of the crowd, but Brad stays in the back by the bar, just watching. Fucking Recon Marine through and through.

"So what genre are you supposed to be?" Brad asks later, when the four of them are sitting in a booth.

"We fucking defy genre," Ray declares, gesticulating grandly.

Ramona laughs and twirls the umbrella in her drink. "Some indie rock and electronica fusion, maybe?"

"She does love the synth," Mike says.

Brad blinks.

"You'll have to forgive Bradley," Ray says smoothly. "He went to military school and so utterly does not understand the meaning of fun that I'm not sure he even listens to music beyond what comes up on the radio."

Brad sends him a half-exasperated, half-amused look. "I have ears, Ray. Ergo: I can tell good from bad, and frankly, I can't believe you made me endure your terrible caterwauling for months when you could actually sing _well_ this entire time."

"That's so sweet of you," Ray says smarmily, batting his eyelashes. "Doesn't change the fact that you're still fucking repressed. Live a little, man."

Brad rolls his eyes and excuses himself to the bathroom. Mike motions at the barkeep for another round of drinks.

"He's cute," Ramona comments, curling up on the seat. Mike sends her an appraising look and she grins, rubbing his chin. "Don't be jealous. I’m just saying."

Ray raises his eyebrows and takes a large gulp of his beer. As per usual, most of it ends up on his shirt. Like, okay—intellectually, he knows Brad is hot shit, but it's pretty weird hearing it out loud when about 99% of the time they've spent together has been with other Marines. Not to mention that Rudy fucking Reyes moves in their circle of friends, which basically fills up the whole goddamn quota of overt gayness.

"You should keep him," Mike says.

Ray laughs around the rim of his bottle. "Maybe I will."

"What are you talking about?" Brad asks as he slides back in next to him.

"Your huge retard dick," Ray says, blasé.

It's a testament to how much of Ray's bullshit Brad's been subjected to over the years that he doesn't even bat an eyelash.

Not everyone has the fucking tolerance of a Goliath, so Ray's pretty wasted by two in the morning when Mike and Ramona have to leave. He gets up to walk them out and nearly melts into a puddle of intoxicated guitarist. The only thing that saves him is a reflexive arm around the waist—Brad's, and for a couple of long seconds it's like he's having one of those trippy out-of-body experience, like he's looking down at himself from somewhere above their heads.

And then he's back, breathing deeply into the line of Brad's neck, legs a gooey mess underneath him and an arm thrown over Brad's shoulders to keep him upright. Jesus Christ.

 _Sorry_ , he tries to say. It comes out as an odd, wheezing giggle instead. Mike and Ramona are long gone and Brad fishes the keys out of Ray's jacket pocket. "How is it," Brad says, when Ray's lying in the back of the car and every bump in the road sets fireworks off behind his eyelids, "how is it that I always end up having to look out for your sorry ass? Jesus. I'm the one who just came back from a warzone."

Ray's not sure he was supposed to hear that. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't know if he can even if he tries, his tongue feels so thick and heavy in his mouth.

Anyway, there's no heat behind it. Through the haze of alcohol-induced delirium, it sounds more fond than anything—and isn't that just Brad Colbert all over?

 

 

Ray is going to die. The piercing headache pounding through his head is going to split his skull open and his brains are going to ooze out onto the floor and he's going to die prematurely because he drank too much last night and no one had the fucking foresight to cut him off.

"Such drama," comes a voice that is far too loud for comfort. There's a rustle of thick curtain and the pounding ebbs a little at the decrease in light. Ray cracks an eye open and Brad is looming over him, a couple of pills and cup of water held out in his hands. "Advil."

Ray downs the painkillers and most of the water before crumpling back into the sheets. "Thanks," he says hoarsely.

"Your friends were nice," Brad says.

Ray squints at him. "I'll be sure to send your regards along, homes."

Brad waits a beat and props himself up against the wall, announces, "Battalion wants me back at Pendleton next weekend."

"Okay," Ray says after a moment. "Just tell me when. I'll take your ass to the airport."

Brad crosses his arms and cocks his head to the side, as if he's got something else to say. All that ends up coming out of his dumb, emotionally stunted mouth is: "Thank you."

 

 

Dragon Lady strikes two more times in the next week, but Ray deals with it just fine, if fine means bitching Charlie's ear off when their shifts overlap and nearly cursing her out when she finally shows up for her goddamn private cardio session on Thursday. Which it does—in Ray's book, at least.

The last night Brad is here, Ray drives them to Swope Park, a case of cold beers in the back of the pickup. It's fucking freezing outside but at least the stars are clearer here than they are in the city, and it's better than staying cooped up indoors regardless of how enjoyable kicking Brad's ass at Mario Kart is.

"This is kind of sickeningly romantic," Brad remarks, eyes flicking up to the sky. "Didn't know you had it in you, Person."

"Wow, okay," Ray says flatly. He points at Brad with the neck of his bottle. "You don't get to say anything about that. Who fucking hauled me across the entire country and back because he was concerned about my fucked up sleeping habits?"

"As far as I remember, you were the one who did most of the driving."

Ray throws him an incredulous expression. "Are you really gonna argue semantics with me? Really? Oh, it's on."

"It worked, didn't it?" Brad stares very carefully at a bush next to the car.

Ray exhales. "Yeah, so maybe you helped a little. That still doesn't—I don't—what are we doing here?" He leans against the truck, a hand cocked on his hip. "What are you doing here?"

"Is it so hard," Brad asks, "to fathom that I might've just wanted to see you?"

"See, the thing is, Bradley—you've always come to me when you need something. And, dude, I appreciate that level of trust." Brad looks like he's about to interject and Ray waves him off. "No, listen. I do. I do appreciate it." Ray—

Ray has no idea where he's going with this.

He rubs a hand over his face, pinches the bridge of his nose. "You know—why can't we ever just _talk_ about shit? Talk straight like normal people do?"

"You want me to talk about it?"

Ray frowns. "Yes, jackass! Talk!"

"Is it so hard," Brad repeats slowly, "to understand that maybe I just wanted to spend some of my leave with you?"

Ray stares at him.

Brad folds his arms and sits down on the back bumper of the Ford, legs splayed out so that his sneakers kick at the slush on the ground.

"I just need you to be you. That's all. And you are." He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing in an interesting way that Ray studiously does not think about. "You are, without fail, the most infuriating motherfucker on this fucking planet. You don't know when to shut up, you don't know when to quit, ever, and you're smarter than anyone gives you credit for. Sometimes you think too much and sometimes you don't think enough. Sometimes I have no idea what the fuck is going on in your head."

Brad shrugs and tilts his head back, neck lolling over so that he's looking straight at Ray.

"Sometimes that's what I need, you messed-up, redneck little shit."

There's a long pause, and Brad takes another sip of his beer.

Maybe it's always been like this between them—this skirting around the edges of some _je ne sais quoi_ , so much so that now that it's out in the air, there's no epiphany or sudden shift in paradigm that comes with it. This is how they do things, and it works for them, and nothing fundamental has changed. Maybe Ray's always known.

"That is straight up, one hundred percent, the gayest thing I have ever heard come out of someone's mouth, Brad," he says finally. "Jesus. You've really outdone yourself."

"Are you happy now?" Brad asks, voice dry. He straightens up, long and loose-limbed.

"Well, I was quite enjoying it, actually," Ray says, waggling his eyebrows. "Please, continue."

"Never again," he says, and it sounds like a promise.

 

 

For reasons unknown, Brad's flight is at seven in the morning, which means Ray has to drive them there at an even more god-awful hour. It's still dark out and KCI's barely geared up for the day when they trundle up to the domestic terminal entrances.

"I'll write you soppy letters from home when you redeploy," Ray says, grinning.

"Please don't."

"Try not to get yourself killed, yeah?"

Brad pulls his suitcase out the back and claps him on the shoulder. "Don't worry. I'll be back."

"Nice. You wanna try that again with the Schwarzenegger accent?"

"Fuck off," he says. And then: "It was good seeing you," and he says it with such painful earnestness that Ray can't not reach up and pull him into a stupid hug, because civilian life's made him all soft and shit.

Brad stiffens for a second before leaning into it, a puff of laughter arcing over the shell of Ray's ear. Brad's cologne smells good, warm and sharp—which is so not a thing Ray should be thinking about right now, so he wrinkles his nose and pulls back. "Speak of this to no one, dickwad."

Brad has the gall to _smile_ at him before he turns, the absolute dick. The wheels of his suitcase snip loudly against the concrete pavement as it rolls away. "Bye, Ray," he shouts over his shoulder.

"Call me, you big cocksucker," Ray hollers. He climbs back into the pickup, the springs in the driver's seat squeaking. The last thing he sees before he pulls away from the curb is Brad waving through the glass.


End file.
